


Rightfully So

by highlycommendable



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, clone wars - Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25691917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highlycommendable/pseuds/highlycommendable
Summary: The natives of Gatalenta, a planet in the Core Worlds, are not to underestimated.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox/Reader, CC-4477| Thire & Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character(s) & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. I

**It’s a habit**. A habit borne of worry and panic and _nerves_ that rise low along your spine and hold you there with vice-fingers.

The habit in question is now the inexplicable pace at which you furl and unfurl your fingers. There’s the rhythm of your feet against the duristeel floor of the ship, too, the delicate heels not so quiet against the smooth, flat surface.

You’re pacing too- another habit borne of anxiety and the ruthless fear of invasion, failure, the civilisation collapsing. If you’re honest with yourself, completely, it’s an _utterly_ irrational habit and one that wears the soles of your slippers and heels and the grandiose of your expansive wardrobe to dust.

The handmaidens are watching you. Nala, Saba, Oma, Ila, all graduates from the Royal Academy, and each different in their own. Each different, except for the identical hidden blasters, the vibroblade, Ila’s similarities to your elegant facial structure, Oma’s odd ease at replicating your long worn in accent. They are identical for a purpose, and they do it well.

Saba is first to speak. She is the ace with the blaster- could hit a target thirty feet away if she desired too. She’s also the only blonde within the group, and angles a curious look at you before opening her gently pink-painted mouth.

“Why are you pacing?”

You pause in your tread.

“To give myself something to do.” You whisper sharply back, rubbing the space along your brows to soften it. The tension had increased tenfold after the rocky flight and what you think was an attempted murder on some count. Ship fire and the horrible spinning, rocking, that had sent one of your clothes trunks flying.

Luckily, it wasn’t lingerie or anything even near as risqué, fortunately for the ‘ _shiny_ ’ trooper that rushed in to check everything was okay afterwards. He had a red streak on his armour. Something about the battalion he belonged to- you remember Saba mentioning. Nala had agreed.

Nala was the one with the brains. She raises her dark eyebrows and leans on a hand. She’s silent. She’s been silent for many years. Her hands raise in signals.

_If you wear another whole in your dress with the fussing, I’m sending you to the pits of Nal Hutta_.

Perhaps if the handmaidens were so damn terrifying, it would be easier to laugh at the stern, honey-skinned brunette. She doesn’t change her expression, though. You falter in your fussing.

Oma stretches long against the chaise where she’s perched. It’s at the very end of the huge bedspread you’d been occupying on the flight over. Four standard days, five nights.

Ila runs a finger down the bridge of her nose and waits to speak. She always waits. Something from home, maybe, where she has eight brothers, or maybe from the Academy, where she certainly wasn’t top of her class, but she was _interesting_ and you wanted her on your protection.

“I think it’ll be fun.” Oma’s brow crinkles at her sister-in-arms. She scowls for a moment, pushing back a curl of red hair. “What?”

“Your naivety will put the princess in danger.” Ila knows not to take her severity to heart. Oma had a temper of a mudhorn, and was the best at hand to hand. She could wrestle three men to the ground and drink a pint of barrel-brew afterwards without faltering.

They were- all of them- _incredibly_ unassuming.

Ila strokes a hand over her periwinkle gown.

The rest are in matching units, with gentle silver circlets and delicate necklaces of golds and blues, all wearing the Stone of Love somewhere on them. On Ila’s wrist, in Saba’s ears, around Oma’s neck, in the piercing that hangs in Nala’s septum.

Ila looks contemplative for a moment. Her brow furrows, then unfurrows. She is tentative with her words and her wit, as the decoy, she is your most loyal, powerful maiden, and the one in the most danger. You’d vowed to protect her as she did you already.

“Fun is perhaps... a word _less_ travelled, like the path.” She is horribly poetic sometimes too- it riles Nala up to no ends. She was a fan of fact and data and diagrams and knowledge, not of the fairy poets and the flimsy half-truths of some old parchment poem.

_If you will, dear Ila, speak in Basic, instead of Droidspeak, you insufferable nerf-herder._ Ila giggles at Nala’s comment, at the amusement curving her sister’s face. _I don’t think you are in much danger, my lady_. Nala signs to you now.

In one elegant sweep, Oma is off the bed and towards you. She is heavy handed and dangerous too, but she is the best at making you up, applying crystal shell powder along the crest of your cheeks, along the smoothness of your eyelids, and painting your eyebrows in darker, filling out your lips with a gentle pink, purple and so on.

She checks your makeup once more before starting to reapply it.

You were due on the city-planet in minutes.

“They will try and _force_ us to become Republic-allied, I fear.” Saba frowns as you declare it.

“Of course they will. But we will not _let_ them.” The wise one speaks, her wrists flexing, neck rolling. What she is preparing for you are not ready to voice- it is like the visceral image of the war that raged across the galaxy.

War, the one unspoken, the cold one. The one where snakes like to sit and curl up to bask, and where poison is better use that a war-grade blaster.

You coil your fingers again. Oma wrenches them apart, not fearful to be forceful, and gives you a look as she paints over your mouth with a shimmery gloss. You sigh, dropping your hands to your sides.

They fall into the silky-smoothness of your gown, lost among the white material. It flows like the waves on Gatalenta, and had been chosen specifically by Saba to try and tell the Senate that you were innocent enough- she thought it might deter them from taking your planet and making you Republic. Who knows. 

It’s white, though, embroidered very delicately with silver thread, and cinches high around your waist before cascading outwards, in a downwards slope. It made for elegant entrances and usually, it liked to reflect the suns off of its luxurious material.

It would probably be different on Coruscant, though, when the sun might not even find its way through the thick seam of clouds, or the smog that you’d heard about from one of the planet Elders who had taken a brief trip there to discuss shipping treaties with some members of the Senate. ‘ _Only over the industrial parts_ ’, she had said.

Which parts weren’t industrial? The whole planet was a city- nothing like Gatalenta, where half the planet was smothered in turquoise seas, and the other half was tall peaks of grassy mountains, grassy hills, sweet-smelling forests and mangrove trees, and then the slope of Gatalenta City, with the resorts and the fields of farming, and the lush growth of the civilisation. 

Coruscant, as it came into view through the thin viewport, was a planet of lights and darkness all at the same time. Specked with tiny yellow beams, it shone, glittering like a sheet of sequins, quite obviously the crown jewel of the Core. 

Speaking of crown jewel, as the ship enters the atmosphere and into a stream of hubbub, a transport lane or something similar, with the hum of ships and speeders and freighters echoing off the duristeel shell you were kept in, Oma bestows upon you the royal headdress.

It’s a thin silver circlet, like the handmaiden’s, but with a sheer shimmer of a veil, and a long, gossamer stream of gems down from the very centre of your hairline, running down the slope of your nose. It’s delicate, elegant, and centuries old. Oma smoothens it out with a hand, making sure it settles well over your chest, your shoulders.

“Oh, _wow_!” Saba is at the window, her face pressed hard against the transparisteel, likely flattening her features into it. Nala joins her to peer over her shoulder and smiles, her eyes crinkling into fondness. “Look at the boards!” She’s shrieking something about the display boards, the ones that suddenly shift from a brand new makeup project to something darker.

_War_. You recognise it from the flashes, the terrible burning red of fires, the very quiet echo you hear from it, the gunfire, blasterfire, commands being shouted. You see the names at the bottom.

Jedi.

A smile graces your face. Jedi were fascinating to your people, really, with Jedi stories being told in good graces almost every week, day, to children and to adults alike. There was a Jedi statue in the centre of Gatalenta City, and some retired ones, the ones who were too old and a little too cynical to stay in the famed Jedi Temple on the capital planet, they lingered in the City. 

You tilt your head with a smile, even as the war blows on in the background. It shifts then, to show the victory, and then the Jedi themselves, extinguishing their blades of blue and green to head back to their troopers.

Saba hums, smiling.

_They are quite something, aren’t they?_ Nala signs, her fingers elegant with their movements. _Look at their outfits- Generals_.

“Generals... Jedi should never have taken part in this horror.” Oma mutters, her words low, biting. She frowns as she makes the final adjustments to your veil and steps back, spinning your chair so the rest can see you. “Is this okay?”

“You look wonderful, Princess. Truly beautiful- an _image_ of our society.” Ila gushes, rushing forwards and snatching your silver-ringed hands up. She grins, her own shining eyes crinkling. 

“Your sarcasm is endearing, sister.” Oma mutters, capturing Ila’s hand in her grasp. Saba and Nala stand, nearing you on the chair. 

_You look beautiful,_ Nala signs. _I doubt any of the Senators will be able to keep their eyes off of you_.

Saba snorts.

“I hope they keep their eyes off of you. I want to go home already.” You lean forward and take her hand. She squeezes it, eyes glancing towards the shining viewport. The sky is blue, clear, empty, no smog, no clouds, no nothing, except the towering peaks of the sky-buildings. “Do you think they’ll have space for skyfaring?”

“I doubt it.” Oma whispers, smoothing out the veil down your back. “They are likely _just_ as self-centred as the Separatists are. There is no _right_ side in this war. We should have rejected their offer.”

“If we had _rejected_ it, Oma, we would have been _invaded_ , likely as not.” You respond, face almost hidden by the thin veil over your face. “I just hope everyone will be safe at home while we are gone.”

“I told Sarbina to make sure she knew the emblems on incoming ships.” Sarbina being the High Commander of your small but effective army of a few thousand back on Gatalenta. Compassion and love left no room for fighting, but to fight for those you loved was the loophole, you suppose.

You wind your fingers together in a diplomatic ease, knuckles brushing the flesh of your legs through the dress’ material. The ship is lowering now, and in moments, there’s the thud of sturdy legs against what is probably one of their landing pads.

Nala looks up. She looks worried.

“Nala, don’t be so worried. It’ll be alright. I promise.” Before she can sign in return, there’s a knock at the door, and it opens. One of the Republic pilots bows, respectfully, before gesturing into the main space of the ship.

“We have landed.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You arrive on Coruscant with low expectations. They're met.

**The ship is sleek.** Sleek and functional, and everything you’d expected on arrival to the galaxy capital. It’s easy to traverse, heeled shoes and everything, sweeping skirts and everything- even through the thin veil you can focus on the shapes and sides of countertops, long, elegant seating areas, the door to the cockpit. It was a royal ship, it seemed.

You let Saba lead the group after the pilot, who stands beside the controls on the wall, and pauses before hitting the buttons.

“There is a landing party awaiting you, Princess.” You don’t respond for a moment, tempted to lean out of the viewport to see exactly what sort of landing party is waiting on the duristeel pad. “Your bodyguards and a member of the Senate.”

“Thank you, pilot.” Oma responds, turning her head to attempt finding your unease beneath the white, shimmering sheet that hangs in front of your face. “Princess, we will lead. Ila, stay with her highness.” 

Saba watches as the runway extends, the ramp dropping and letting in a stream of sunlight. It beams off you all, glancing about the interior of the sleek ship, and has you smiling before you can register it. The warmth seeps through the gossamer of your gown, through the delicate veil, over your skin until you’re warmed.

The gown has well placed cutouts over your shoulders, trimmed in blue, silver, and as the sun hits you, hits your skin, you can’t help but relax a little. Saba, Oma and Nala take their steps down the regal ramp, over the white-stained metal, until there is space for you to begin.

You take your first steps onto Coruscant with elation. The sun is almost as warm as home, you realise. It must be summer here, although there isn’t much foliage to tell you so, except the endless blues of the skies, and the towering, sun-soaked sky-buildings that reach beyond you. 

Ila brushes your back with her fingertips and eases you down the steps. It’s a little difficult with the sun and everything, glancing off the metal, leaving you almost blind to the shapes of the staircase, but you make it down onto the landing pad nevertheless. 

There is certainly a party awaiting you. Five troopers, like the ‘shiny’ one, all painted in red. They look different though- they’re holding themselves with an uptight regality and superiority, high shoulders, straight spines, arms crossed over blasters, standing at attention. Visors, kamas, blasters, rifles, arms of warriors. 

There’s a woman standing among them, though. She’s beautiful, really, with pale skin and red hair, a silver headpiece, a white gown with flowing sleeves and a phantom silhouette. She bows her head as you approach.

“Princess, welcome to Coruscant.” She is polite, soft-spoken, and sounds quite Coruscantian, with her lilted tone. “I am Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila. It is truly my honour to welcome you to our planet.” She bows again, red hair still in place beneath her silver headdress.

“The princess extends her thank you to you, Mon Mothma of Chandrila.” Saba bows her head in respect to the statuesque red-haired woman. “We are pleased to be here.”

“Although I have to leave you for a Senate meeting, these are the Coruscant Guard. They’ll be here to protect you for the time you are here. It truly was a pleasure.” Like a ghost, Mon Mothma disappears into a speeder on the other side of the landing pad. It’s only now that you realise you are in front of the Senate office complex.

There’s a brief moment of silence. The troopers do not speak until Saba does.

“It’s good to meet you, troopers, although I hope we will not be needing your protection.” She bows her head with a glittering smile. Ever the diplomat.

“Are you the princess?” One asks. The voice is gruff, cool-toned. You feel a shiver down your spine- not the good kind, but the kind that follows confrontation, or the kind that ices blood and chills veins. 

“No.” Saba’s brow pulls for a moment, just a moment, before she returns with her beam. Nala signs something behind her back.

_Be prepared_.

You sigh quietly, watching as the troopers helmets turn this way, that way, before settling on you. 

“Are you the princess?”

“She is.” Oma rests a hand in front of you, her hackles raised. Three more seconds and she’d snap. You try to calm her with the pads of your fingers, brushing along her bicep, but all you feel is the tight, corded muscle of her shoulders coiling together. “And she is usually met with a _modicum_ of respect, trooper.”

Uh oh.

“Well, we need to check you _all_.” Then, scanners are pulled from kamas, and then, you’re circled like carrion beneath a vulture. You swallow, nerves prickling along your throat, eyes flitting from side to side as they prowl around you. Nala shoots a stern look at the man who stares her down, scanning down her body. 

_This one is asking for a punch in the throat_. 

“We’d appreciate if you spoke Basic.” The gruff voice speaks- they’re all the same voices. These damn clones. You scowl beneath your veil.

Oma growls.

“Did they teach you respect in your _tubes_ on Kamino? Do not speak to her so rudely.” Oma’s shoulders rise, her fists squeezing together. “Come, Nala.” Oma outstretches a hand to pull the dark haired girl in. Nala looks understandably unaffected. 

In all honesty, she looks furious.

It was unusual. Gatalentans did not feel such things as fury. You wind your fingers together. Saba watches.

“We need to see her face.”

There’s a moment of silence. You see, no, you feel the stillness that graces your handmaidens. They are slowly losing patience. This was certainly not the greeting you were expecting.

“No. You won’t see her face. It is tradition.” Saba says softly, her face still as neutral as she can make it. She is trying, thank the gods, to stay as calm as possible. Oma, however, is beginning to twitch. “She will remove the veil once we are in our chambers. On a new planet-”

“We need to see her _face_.”

Nala raises her hands and begins signing furiously. You try to stay unamused at the thought of the troopers looking on in confusion.

_The disrespect is starting to upset me, I say we go back to Gatalenta now, or request a different audience. I won’t have you unveiled on the platform_. Her hands twitch and her brows pull down. She’s angry, and that hits you straight in the chest. _If they-_

Then, there’s fingers around her wrist, silencing her. Oma snaps.

She flies forwards, and you kick into action. A hand on Oma’s shoulder, quiet words spoken in soft Gatalentan, and a hand outstretched to Nala, who now looks on the verge of terror. Everyone softens.

“Trooper, please, unhand my maiden.” There’s a moment of poignant pause over the group of you. 

“Thire.” The one holding Nala glances over his shoulder, towards the one with the visor. They both are hulking, intimidating presences. Nala is tiny compared to them.

There’s one quiet trooper, in armour different to the others, who just stares silently at the group. The fingers drop from Nala and you bring her to your side, handing her off to Ila when she begins to shiver.

You are furious, and rightly so. It’s the sort of anger that threatens to turn your vision to red and make your own academy training boot up. But you swallow it.

“Thank you.” You murmur. “Perhaps we should have made better attempts to make known our planet’s traditions. I do not unveil myself on a planet I have never been to before until I am in safe conditions to do so- this is not an insult to you, or your Senate, or your Republic. It is a matter of culture, and a matter of _honour_.” You pause, fingers brushing the edge of your delicate veil. “But for you, it seems _other_ things must be taken into account.”

You take the veil between your periwinkle painted fingers and lift it, until your face bathes in the gold of the sun and stands against the gentleness of the breeze.

“Are you happy, now, then?” The troopers don’t respond. In fact, two heads duck. Out of embarrassment, or respect, or what, you don’t know. The helmets are... _inhibiting_. “Please. I’d like to go inside, to wherever you are taking us, before I come to fear for my safety with the people who are called my ‘Guard’.” Saba’s hand finds yours in the folds of your gown. She’s uneasy- you can feel it, breathe in through the living Force.

“Of course.” The voice is breathless, rushed out, and the troopers turn on a heel, taking up arms around you to lead you into the Senate complex. 

_I’m scared_ , Nala signs, her face now marred by worry. _I fear now that we are in worse danger than we thought_.

Saba takes Nala’s hand and squeezes it, whispering something you can’t pick up as you follow the troopers, first in line. They pause at an elevator, standing tall, still, and one punches the buttons in.

“Where are we?” You ask, the question fizzling between the troopers. It’s not aimed at any of them in particular, but the one who had Nala in his grip speaks first.

“This is the Senatorial apartment complex. It is where you’ll be staying for the time you stay here.” You glance away. Whether proper precautions for your culture will have been taken, you had yet to see. “There is... there is space for you all to pray.”

It’s as if he’s answered your question from your mind- plucked it clean and heard it. Had you spoken it? No, you hadn’t. You hated how their faces were covered, shielded by plastoid and red paint- their eyes were little but a myth beneath those helmets.

“What about our things?” Saba asks, her voice timid, quiet. Nervous. You wish you could take her into your arms and tell her you would be safe, that no one would lay a hand on any of you again. 

“They will be transported up by the droids.” 

The rest of the lift journey is spent in silence. The door slides open, then, and you step forward first. 

It’s as if they’d made a carbon copy of your room at home. Clear stone floors, glowing with the amber of the sun, specked with dark flecks, the walls painted a pale blue, the pillars carved with Gatalentan engravings. The sofas are long, elegant, white and pale, and there’s what you think is three boxes of Gatalenta tea on the table. They must have been transported up already. The kitchenette is clean, modern, beautiful.

“Huh. I’ve eaten my words.” Oma sweeps in behind you, her fingers going straight to the plush backs of the sofas. She gushes for a moment, a childish smile skirting her features. She hasn’t smiled properly since you got on the transport. “Beautiful.”

You cross to the balcony, head tilted as to catch the filmy silhouettes of the far-away low-districts, to catch the sunbeams as they filter in. The troopers are now silent.

It’s odd, really, to hear nothing from them. You keep your back firmly pressed to their presence and feel the uncomfortableness of it all weighing down on your spine. Ila notices.

She thread her fingers through yours, and smiles, nudging her chin onto your shoulder.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” She whispers. Her voice is warmed by emotion, and more-so, warmed by the girlish tone of her concern. You tilt your head and nod.

“It is.” 

“Princess.” You hear your title, and turn your head, just a little. There is one trooper that addresses you. He is tall, broad shoulders, slim waist, clenched fists- he is irritated, and why, you have no idea, and the helmet doesn’t help. It is, however, a stern image.

The helmet is red and white, but the visor... it’s _dark_ grey. The colour of storms and raging winters, and the colour of power, you think, anyway. It is embellished delicately with some strange whorls of a pattern. _Pretty_ , your brain echoes.

You wanted to see them. You _wanted_ to- but he spoke first.

“We need to stay here, with you.” The handmaiden’s heads shoot up. You frown, turning fully to face him.

Suddenly... it felt like politeness hardly mattered.

“And why is that, trooper?” Your voice is cold. Nala meets your eye with a warning look across the apartment. She goes to sign, but then there’s a trooper at her side and she falls dormant.

“To protect. Guard. Watch.” ‘Watch’. His arrogance pushed under your skin like a splinter. It smarts. 

“Watch what, exactly? Are we not trusted?” You cross your arms. There’s a brief moment of anxiety that shimmers over the group of you.

“No.”

You scoff. “No? Why not? Do not think that we are traitors. Don’t dare to give us such a beautiful apartment just to soften the fact that you will be staring over our shoulders every five minutes.” You snap. Oma’s eyebrows shoot up. “In fact, we’d rather risk our lives down on the streets, if it means you won’t be lingering so venomously.”

“Don’t talk to us about _respect_ , Princess, if you are so prepared to speak to us like that.”

You feel your gut burn, then, like a flag in the wind, set alight, and you feel your body quiver with the smoke that stays. This is an uncommon feeling.

“Respect?” You stand tall, then, evenly staring into the visor of the trooper. “Where is _your_ respect? You wear that- that _thing_ on your head and speak to us like the scum that lines your boots. Don’t try and turn this on its behind, _soldier_.” Your voice shivers through the syllables. Ila’s hand on your arm does nothing to deter the poison that seeps through your skin.

The trooper stares at you silently for a moment, before he tucks a hand beneath the lip of his helmet and tugs it off.

You swallow, dry-mouthed. Dark eyes glare right back at you. 

He’s like a phillak, charged, hard-headed, and prepared to butt at what he needed to get what he _wanted_. It was a matter of personality, you realised too late, and then, you realised quite simply:

This one was an _asshole_.

(An attractive one, which, common to your luck, is not a surprise.)

He swipes a hand over his hair and scowls.

“How is this for respect, _Princess_?”

It’s like someone’s just raised a gasoline to a spark. Your body goes cold.

“Commander Fox.” Someone saves you both. It’s his trooper, well, one of them. “There’s a message from the Supreme Chancellor. He wants to speak to you, now.” 

“Of... of course, Stone, I’ll take this downstairs.” He gives you one last scathing look and turns on a heel, marching towards the elevator doors. He snatches the holopad from his brother’s hand and then, he disappears.

You breathe a shaky breath.

“Sorry.” Is all you manage, then Ila’s cooing in your ear, and smoothing her hands down your back. You sigh, letting your shoulders drop, and slump onto the sofa. It’s not ladylike, but it seems to amuse one of the troopers, who you hear chuckle beneath his bucket.

“Your highness, would you really... we _can_ leave you, if you’d like.”

“Tell your Commander, that if he steps near my chambers again, or anywhere near my maidens, I’ll put him on a spike and have him for breakfast.” You turn from them, and manage to busy yourself with adjusting a statue of an old legend Jedi.

“Uh... yes, of course.”

There’s footsteps, and then there’s nothing.

“Princess, I mean really-”

“Don’t scold me, Saba. I feel like he needed to hear it.” You rub a knuckle between your brows and angle a tired look to the blonde that lingers beside the refresher door. “Can we please do something else?”

“I’ll take your makeup off, my lady.” Oma whispers, a little amused by the conflict, it seems. She shrugs off her smile and approaches you with open arms. “Then, we can eat something. I hope they have soypro.”

Nala taps her fingers against the lightswitches.

She raises her hands.

_Don’t get your hopes up_.

“Oh, indeed.”


End file.
